SpiderMan's Wonderful Life
by Mark C
Summary: Peter begins to feel the pressure of being SpiderMan and decides to do something about it. A familar guardian angel tries to keep him on the right path. Coauthored with Georgia Kennedy.
1. Prologue

**Spider-Man's Wonderful Life**

**By Mark C and Georgia K**

**Disclaimer:**

**This is a derivative work of fiction is based on the films, _Spider-Man, Spider-Man 2,_ a little bit of _Spider-Man 3, _and _It's a Wonderful Life,_ featuring characters copyrighted and trademarked by Marvel Characters, Inc. The authors are not connected with, nor is this work authorized by Marvel Characters, Columbia Pictures, or Paramount Pictures. This work is intended solely as fan fiction for posting on for the benefit and enjoyment of its intended audience. No commercial or financial benefit accrues or is intended to accrue to the authors as a result of said posting.**

**A special thank you goes out to htbthomas who betaed this wonderful Christmas tale.**

**Prologue**

"Richard? Mary?"

"Hello, Ben. It's so good of you to join us."

The two brothers and the younger brother's spouse sat on plush recliners in front of the old brick fireplace, taking in the pleasure of each other's company as well as the warm glow from the orange embers. The lights from the fully trimmed Christmas tree behind them played across the room and painted a rainbow on the blanket of snow just outside the large picture window. Of course, the scene did not really exist. The three angels had woven it together from now-distant memories of having grown up in Little Falls, Wisconsin, during earthly sojourns that ended far too soon.

Suddenly a fierce wind ripped through the entities' peaceful gathering, dissolving their pleasant collective dream and leaving them floating on a sea of stars. Someone down on Earth was crying out for help. Someone whom they all knew, and loved dearly.

"I think our boy is having trouble again," Ben's thoughts echoed through the vast heavens.

"Ah, yes," Richard and Mary responded in like fashion. "on Christmas Eve, no less."

A starburst appeared and transformed into what could only have been described as a movie projected onto the sky. Multicolored beams of light coalesced to reveal a solitary figure, clad in a red and blue costume, standing atop a very old skyscraper in New York City, being pounded mercilessly by the worst snowstorm to hit the Big Apple in decades. Hidden from the world by mirrored lenses, but visible to loved ones beyond the veil of life, his eyes were staring despondently into the blizzard as he carried on a one-sided conversation with a gargoyle.

Ben paused at the ensuing ripple in the fabric of the universe. "Uh oh, he's actually thinking about throwing away God's greatest gift. Maybe we'd better go down there and help him."

"Not so fast Ben. You've been up here long enough to know the rules. This is Peter's moment of truth. We can't interfere."

"But he's lost right now. He needs to recognize all the good he does in the world. He's made so many people's lives better, yet he doesn't see it."

"Our point exactly. He is being given a priceless opportunity, and if we try to prevent circumstances from unfolding as they should, we'll be taking that opportunity away from him."

But Ben was not easily dissuaded. "He'll have no opportunity if he makes the wrong decision. That would set him back a long, long time." He could tell from their thought-waves that they were open to persuasion. "It might be helpful to see how he ended up in this situation. Back up six weeks and two days, Earth time."


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

_Mary, Richard, and Ben watched the costumed figure swing between skyscrapers on a sunny autumn afternoon. His flight pattern was unusually erratic, and not without good reason. He had just bought a bunch of yellow carnations and was passing them back and forth between each hand as he released his webline._

_Ben laughed heartily_. "_I don't know about you two, but I love it when Peter goes after bad guys."_

* * *

"It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood, and I know someone who really wants to be my neighbor," Peter Parker sang to himself as he made a spider-line for his lover's apartment. It had been fourteen years since he had first fallen in love with Mary Jane Watson, and seven months since he had finally, if reluctantly, let her into his life.

Today, they were going to celebrate. Mary Jane had just auditioned for the lead role in a brand new Broadway play, _Manhattan Memories_. There was no doubt in her mind that she had nailed it. He would have bought her dinner at _Sardi's_, but as it was, he could barely afford Chinese takeout.

Suddenly, Peter felt that depressingly familiar tingling at the base of his skull. "Oh, man," he thought, his heart sinking at having to be an empty seat yet again. He was not surprised. He could count the number of dates he had been able to keep with MJ on his fingers. Yet she never complained, not even once. She knew what she was getting into when she had given up what would have been a privileged and pampered life, and like him, was grateful for whatever time they could spend together.

Forced to let go of the carnations, Peter let the mid-autumn breeze carry them to the street below, where they met their fate under the wheels of a speeding taxi. He did not even have time to mourn their loss. The buzzing sensation intensified as a thunderous explosion rocked the whole area.

Landing on a rooftop, he surveyed the carnage below, trying to zero in on whomever or whatever had turned a busy Manhattan intersection into a war zone. Overturned vehicles littered the street, and huge holes were gouged out of nearby buildings. Shards of broken glass were everywhere.

As he set his Nikon on automatic, another explosion sounded from the next block over. Knowing what was coming, Spider-Man leaped off the building just as a police cruiser appeared out of nowhere, hurtling end-over-end, heading straight for an old woman with a walker who could not get out of the way. Operating on adrenalin and instinct, Spider-Man caught the police car, his legs acting as shock absorbers to cushion the massive impact. As he righted the squad car and gently set it down, he saw the man responsible. "Shocker," he sighed. "Nobody could miss that M.O."

Shocker was indeed a frightening sight to behold. A second-rate burglar with a natural aptitude for physics, he had built himself a pair of hand-held sonic projectors in a prison workshop. After he escaped, he managed to mount the devices on wrist-guards, complete with thumb-triggers. He wore heavy brown and yellow body armor that left only his eyes exposed.

A S.W.A.T. van roared up the street, its siren blaring.

"Back off!" Shocker shouted as he took aim at the onrushing police vehicle.

Timing his leap perfectly, Spider-Man greeted his adversary with a well-placed foot to the gut, sending the talented but morally challenged inventor hurtling into a brick wall. "Hey, Shocker! Don't you know that a mind is a terrible thing to waste?"

Stunned, but still in the game, the career criminal was on his feet in no time. "I figured you'd show up sooner or later, web-head. Now, hows about I give you a proper greeting." He extended both arms and fired two vibro-shock waves.

Spider-Man easily dodged the blasts. "You're so predictable, Shockie. Your mother must be so disappointed in you." He moved in for the takedown. "Here's web in your eye."

"Aaarrrgghh!" Shocker shouted as he struggled to pull the powerful coagulant off his mask.

"Don't worry, Shockster. Just wrapping things up." Spider-Man quickly lassoed the hapless crook, removing his gauntlets and carrying him toward the approaching S.W.A.T. team. "Hi guys. Here's an early Christmas present for you. And tell the warden that this guy should stick to making license plates."

But the police were less than impressed. "Just cut the wisecracks and put your hands up, pal, now!" the cop in charge barked as the other officers drew their guns.

But Spider-Man did not flinch. He merely dropped his package at their feet. Run-ins with turf-conscious police officers were part of the game, something that he had to live with. "I'd love to stick around. But I'm late for a very important date. See ya later."

And then he was gone, moving so fast it was like he had never been there.

* * *

With a _Hunan Delight_ bag in one hand and freshly cut carnations in the other, Peter breathed a sigh of relief as he rang Mary Jane's doorbell. He had to watch his back every time he visited her, usually to avoid the prying eyes of the _Daily Bugle's_ stakeout team. J. Jonah Jameson had blown his stack when Mary Jane left his son at the altar. Naturally, he blamed Spider-Man, concluding, not unreasonably, that she had fallen for the man who had saved her life on more than one occasion. He ordered his reporters to keep her window under round-the-clock surveillance. Peter knew that if any of those guys saw him with Mary Jane, Jameson would put two and two together and their lives would be ruined.

That was one of the reasons he had not seen her in weeks, and _the_ reason he refused to move in with her, despite her pleas.

Peter's heart pounded as the door opened. Mary Jane stood there in all her glory, her long red hair cascading over her slim shoulders like an untamed waterfall. But there was a frown on that gorgeous face. "It's about time you got here."

"What do you mean?"

"You're an hour late. What have you got to say for yourself?"

Peter felt his throat close up. He had not expected this sort of reaction. "I'm sorry MJ. I really tried to get here on time, but . . ."

"Let me guess. There was a disturbance, right?"

He knew he was in trouble. "Um . . . well . . . yeah."

"Well, I've got just one thing to say to you, Peter Parker." Suddenly, MJ flashed her million-dollar smile. "Gotcha!" She burst out laughing and threw her arms around him. "Scared you there, didn't I love?"

Peter nodded sheepishly. He should have known that Mary Jane was just having fun with him. She was an actress after all, and a pretty damned good one at that.

Mary Jane put the bag and the flowers on her small dining room table. "Your battle with that Shocker creep made the evening news. Who knows how much more damage he would have caused if you hadn't stopped him."

Peter allowed himself a slight smile as he gathered her in his arms. "I wish the cops appreciated my efforts as much as you."

"I couldn't be more proud of you, Tiger."

Their lips met in a deep, passionate kiss.

They plowed through dinner, feeding each other chicken lo mein with chopsticks. Afterwards, they retired to the couch. Exhausted, Peter rested his head on Mary Jane's lap. "Is it too late to watch a movie?"

She gently stroked his hair. "It's never too late to do anything with you, Peter."

"What's playing tonight?"

"Well, we could see _Titanic_ for the twelfth time, or how about _Chocolat_?"

"Sounds delicious honey, just like you." Just as he lifted his lips toward hers, the telephone rang.

Mary Jane quickly glanced at her caller ID. "It's my agent." She could barely contain her excitement. "Hello, Lou?" But her dazzling smile faded as soon as Mr. Fernandez started talking. "I see." She paused to collect herself, squeezing her eyes shut to hold back tears. But she remained composed. "Thanks very much, Lou. I'm sure something will break soon." She hung up the phone.

Peter did not have to ask what happened. He stood up and took his distraught girlfriend in his arms. "I guess it wasn't exactly what you wanted to hear."

Mary Jane buried her face in his shoulder. "I need a great big hug right now."

"You got it, sweetheart."

"This is the third time that's happened. I knew every single line, backwards and forwards. I mean, I had it down cold. The director and the producer get really excited and schedule me for a call back. Then Fernandez tells me that they decided to go with somebody else at the last minute. Am I jinxed, or what?"

"Of course not, MJ. You're a fabulous actress. Everyone who's seen _Earnest_ knows it. They should all be pounding on your door." Peter was a little worried about her. _The Importance of Being Earnest_ had finally finished its run, garnering glowing reviews and lasting far longer than anyone had ever expected. But for some unfathomable reason, Mary Jane was not getting the traction she needed to find her next gig. "Are you going to be okay?"

"You mean, am I going to be able to finance my high-society lifestyle?" Mary Jane looked around her cramped studio apartment. "Of course. I'm still under contract with _Emma Rose_, and they want me to do another photo shoot before the holidays, which means I won't have to go back to waiting tables anytime soon." Mary Jane briefly wondered if someone was trying to sabotage her career, but quickly brushed those thoughts aside, refusing to give in to paranoia. Rejections were healthy, she would tell herself. Every no was a step closer to yes. Her tears stopped flowing as she lightly caressed her lover's cheek. "I'm not going to let this little setback spoil an evening with my number one fan."

"Ditto that. Still want to watch _Chocolat_?"

She fired the remote at the television. "Of course."

They settled back into each other's arms and soon forgot about the movie as well as the phone call.

* * *

**AN:** That's all for now. Please leave a review so that we can see how you like it. Constructive criticism is very welcome, flames are not. 


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

_Mary and Richard wondered what was wrong. "It appears that Peter acquitted himself quite well, as he usually does."_

"_A couple of things happened that day which set the chain of events in motion. Move forward to Christmas Eve, late afternoon."_

* * *

"Why am I still doing this?" Peter groaned as he hustled through the crowds of last-minute Christmas shoppers, toward the _Daily Bugle_. He was laboring under two deadlines this time. Not only did he have to deliver his latest batch of photos in time to make the evening edition, but he had to get Mary Jane's present before the big snowstorm hit. Huge dark clouds, pregnant with precipitation, loomed dangerously overhead, taking aim at the Big Apple as the wind started to blow harder.

Apart from Mary Jane's comforting presence in his life, nothing had changed. He was still barely scratching out a living, still struggling to get by in school, and still in a perpetual state of exhaustion. Mary Jane constantly offered to loan him money, but his pride and his work ethic always compelled him to refuse. As it was, she wound up footing the bill for their dates.

"If only Connors would take me on as a research assistant," Peter lamented. But there was no chance of that happening anytime soon. Although the professor had praised his brilliance, he still thought of Peter as too unreliable. And there was nothing Peter could do to change that perception. His responsibilities took precedence over his studies. What really hurt was that he could do the lab work with his eyes closed.

Peter hurried through the lobby of the _Bugle_ building, glancing at his watch as he stepped onto the elevator. _Ten minutes until the deadline, more than enough time. _In the print shop, he quickly connected the Nikon to the massive HP four-in-one. Thirty seconds later, a stream of glossy photographs collected in the tray.

The subject of his photos was always the same. He had long ago given up trying to convince Jameson to expand his horizons.

"Hi, Betty," Peter panted as he emerged from the stairs.

"Go right in, Pete. He's waiting."

"Parker!" Jonah barked on cue. "Get in here!"

He hoped that Jameson would be in enough of a holiday mood to give him a bonus. "Like that's really going to happen," he muttered to himself. "The man's so cheap he makes Ebenezer Scrooge look like old Saint Nick."

Peter quickly dropped his folder on Jonah's desk. Not even the spirit of the season could wipe the perpetual frown off the pompous publisher's face.

"How much do you want for this crap?"

Peter had gotten used to the put-downs a long time ago. What puzzled him was the absence of the snarl that had been a fixture ever since the day of that disastrous wedding.

"Nine hundred for all three."

"Thievery at its lowest. Five hundred for all of them. Not a cent more."

But Peter held his ground. He had to if he wanted to survive another week. "Three hundred per photo. That's the going rate." He had lost track of how many times he had to remind Jameson of that fact.

Jonah huffed, stamped his cigar into an overflowing ashtray, and scribbled out a voucher. "Give this to Miss Brant."

Peter's eyes nearly popped out of his head. The voucher was for twelve hundred dollars. At first, he thought that Jameson might have had a little holiday spirit in him after all. But from working with the flamboyant editor over the years, he suspected that if Jonah was in a good mood, it was a sure bet that someone else was in trouble.

Suddenly, Jameson looked up and broke into a broad grin, as if he were about to greet a welcome visitor. At the same time, Peter's spider-sense went off. Thinking that another crisis was about to erupt, he rushed toward the door, and ran right into a middle-aged man in a trench coat. The collision knocked the man's toupee off.

"I'm terribly sorry sir. Please excuse me." The pounding inside Peter's skull was getting worse. Just as he had gotten around the man, he heard Jameson bark, "Hold it, Parker!"

At hearing Peter's name, the visitor abruptly produced an official-looking document from his rumpled suit jacket and thrust it into Peter's hands. "Merry Christmas," the man said, the sarcasm in his voice unmistakable as he picked his toupee off the floor and darted into the waiting elevator.

Peter unfolded the paper. His eyes widened in shock. It was a subpoena.

Jameson grinned knowingly as he observed Peter standing immobile in his doorway like a deer caught in headlights. "Congratulations, Parker," he said as he got up and clapped his hand on Peter's shoulder. "You've just earned your Christmas bonus."

Peter felt like he got hit over the head with a sledgehammer. He looked at Jonah, totally bewildered. "What's this all about?"

"Remember those pictures you brought in showing Spider-Man intercepting a police car?"

Of course he remembered. They were the best shots in the entire lot. "Spider-Man saved a woman's life," he pointed out emphatically.

"Not quite, Sherlock. The old bitty croaked that night. Heart attack. Her family's filing a seven-million-dollar wrongful death suit against that slimy wallcrawler, and yours truly is bankrolling it."

"Spider-Man wasn't responsible!" Peter shouted, snapping out of his daze. "You can't do that!"

"Can't I?" Jonah went back to his desk and pulled the photographs out of his top drawer. "Take a look."

Peter stared in disbelief at his own photos. The sequence showed the police car angling toward the old lady with the walker.

"Exhibit A. Spider-Man recklessly endangers helpless old woman, causing her to suffer cardiac arrest."

"That's not what happened and you know it! Spider-Man stopped the car from hitting her." Unfortunately, the way Spider-Man was struggling to stop the car's momentum, the pictures gave the distinct impression that he was swinging it right at the elderly woman like a baseball bat.

"Thanks to my generosity, the family was able to hire the biggest law firm in town," Jameson crowed, still flashing teeth yellowed by years of plaque buildup and cigar smoke stains. "In a few weeks, that web-headed weasel will be out of business once and for all!"

Peter went numb. He could not believe that Jameson could stoop so low. But then again, Jonah had been on the warpath against Spider-Man ever since Mary Jane had left his son at the altar. His editorials had gotten more and more scathing, so much so that he actually succeeded in making everyone forget that Spider-Man had saved the entire city from being sucked into nothingness by Otto Octavius's fusion reactor. Peter should have figured that Jonah would be plotting his revenge. After all, MJ had made it very clear to the reporters who had saved her life that day.

What really devastated Peter was that he had unwittingly given Jonah the rope that would be used to hang him.

Jameson wrapped his arm around Peter's shoulder in a gesture that was anything but affectionate. "In case you hadn't figured it out yet, you're the plaintiff's star witness. The day after Christmas, you're going to show up at that courthouse and give a deposition as to Spider-Man's whereabouts. And let me remind you, Parker that lying under oath is a crime, punishable by five years imprisonment. So don't get any ideas about covering up for that menace."

The telephone rang.

"Yeah," Jameson barked as he let go of Peter and returned to his chair. An unintelligible voice on the other end of the line began talking. "She's been turned down four times? That's fabulous news. Great job, Eddie." He hung up the phone, leaned back, smiled, and lit another cigar. "This is gonna be a wonderful holiday. Spider-Man's going down and so is his girlfriend. She'll be lucky if she finds a job at a strip joint."

He noticed, much to his chagrin that Peter was still in his office. "Well, what are you waiting for, Parker? Get out of here and buy yourself a new suit, so you can look sharp in court. Men's Wearhouse is open until midnight." He was completely oblivious to the expression of thwarted anger in Peter's eyes.

Peter slowly walked out of Jameson's office. He was so zoned out that he nearly crashed into Betty Brant's desk.

Outside, the snow was already coming down hard.

"Hey, Peter . . ."

Without a word, Peter exchanged the voucher for a payroll debit slip.

Seeing what she thought was a sad look on Peter's face brought out Betty's sympathies. "Don't spend Christmas alone, Pete. Ned and I are having a little get-together with some friends. You're welcome to join us."

Peter managed to eke out a tiny smile. "I have plans tonight. But thanks . . . for caring." He glanced at his meal ticket for the next few weeks. It was blood money, for his own blood.

He never made it to payroll.

* * *

**AN:** It seems poor Peter's life is about to take a turn. So stay tuned to the next thrilling chapter. Please, leave a review so that we can hear what you think, but no flames. 


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"_Do you see what I mean, Mary?"_

"_Yes, Ben. Things do appear rather bleak for my baby."_

"_We may have to invoke the 'divine intervention' clause a little sooner than expected."_

"_Not yet, Ben," Richard pointed out. "Not until he asks for help."_

"_But you know Peter. Headstrong and stubborn. Always has to do everything on his own."_

"_Then someone has to pray for him."_

* * *

Peter wandered aimlessly through the rapidly whitening cityscape until well after the last feeble rays of daylight had disappeared, oblivious to the rapidly dropping temperature and the sting of tiny, wind-driven crystals in his face. He was under no illusions about what was going to happen. Once again, circumstances were conspiring against him to take away the only person with whom he could find true peace and lasting happiness.

He soon found himself in front of _Tiffany's_, staring forlornly at row upon row of rings, necklaces, and bracelets, sparkling in the huge display window.

"Have yourself a merry little Christmas . . ." Frank Sinatra crooned from somewhere.

"Ooomph . . ." A harried holiday shopper practically shoved Peter out of the way trying to get into the store before it closed. The man never even looked back.

"Merry Christmas to you, too," Peter mumbled as he trudged wearily through the freshly fallen snow.

It was nearly ten o'clock by the time he made it to MJ's front door. He could hear her footsteps coming closer as he rang the bell, the latch clicking, the hinges squeaking as the door opened.

Her beautiful face was lined with worry. "Peter! My God, where were you? Just look at you!" She grabbed him by the lapels and pulled him inside. When she saw the state he was in, she ran into her bathroom and emerged with a large towel. "Come on, Tiger. I'll fix you some hot tea." She wrapped the towel around his shoulders and gently escorted him to the sofa.

"I'm a little wet," Peter murmured.

"Don't worry about it." She made him sit down as she switched on the space heater in front of the couch, and then hung his soaking wet coat on her shower curtain.

His eyes followed her as she hurried back into the kitchen to put on the tea. A Christmas tree, artificial, but fully trimmed, stood tall and proud in the middle of the living room. There was only one present sitting beneath it, a rather large, irregularly shaped package covered in silver gift-wrap. The beautifully set dining room table was itself a testament to the effort that Mary Jane had put into making their first Christmas together truly special.

Seeing all of this, seeing Mary Jane looking so radiant, even in a casual dress, was more than Peter could bear. _It's for her own good,_ he tried to tell himself.

Mary Jane sat down next to him, extending a mug of hot camomile. He sipped at it gratefully as she lightly stroked his cold cheek. He took her hand in his, mustering all of his willpower to once again do what he thought was the right thing.

"MJ . . ."

Mary Jane already knew from the look on his face that it was going to be bad.

His voice subdued, almost monotone, he explained in painstaking detail what had occurred in Jameson's office earlier that day. "The day after Christmas, I'll have to testify under oath what I know about Spider-Man."

MJ's lovely green eyes widened in shock and dismay when he showed her the crumpled subpoena. "That scum-sucking bottom feeder! After everything you've done for this city . . . how dare he!" Those eyes were burning with anger now.

"He's using my own pictures against me."

"What are you talking about?"

"When I caught that police car, it was moving so fast that it twisted me around. But the way the sequence came out, it looked like I was about to club that old lady."

"But that isn't true, and anyone with half a brain would know it!"

"Good luck finding twelve people in New York City who haven't read the _Daily Bugle_." He sighed. "Jonah must've been planning this for months, biding his time waiting for the right moment to strike.

"Come on, Peter. It can't be that bad."

"You don't understand, MJ. When I go to that courthouse, I'll have to reveal my identity." He held her hands a little tighter. "You know what'll happen if my . . . our . . . secret gets out. It'll only be a matter of time before my enemies find you. I'll go to jail before I let that happen."

"Why don't you just take the Fifth?"

"You think that would stop Jameson or anybody else from making the connection? If I plead the Fifth, he'll figure out that I'm hiding something." His voice finally broke. "Maybe it'd better if I just disappeared."

Mary Jane gaped in disbelief. He could not possibly be contemplating the unthinkable. "What are you saying?"

"I'm so sorry, Mary Jane." Peter grasped her shoulders. "I've screwed your life up, but good."

"Stop it, Peter. You have nothing to apologize for."

"Don't I? How about ruining your career for starters?"

"That's ridiculous. I'm just having a dry spell, that's all. Things will break soon, you watch."

"What if I told you that Jameson's been using his influence around town to stop producers from hiring you? You think that would be happening if you were still with John?"

"What?"

"Just before I left Jonah's office, I heard him bragging about it on the phone."

Mary Jane just sat there, stunned. Tears that she had been struggling to hold back were cascading down her cheeks. "That bastard!"

But Peter was not finished yet. "You were right, MJ. I should have listened to you and quit the _Bugle_ the minute you showed up at my apartment. But I didn't, because I was too proud to take a handout. Now, look at what's happened."

"Peter, I'm not going to blame you for my career problems, even if you insist on blaming yourself. We can get through this, believe me. We just have to fight back. There are a couple of lawyers in Hell's Kitchen who take on clients that don't have a lot of money. They helped out my friend Louise when she had trouble paying rent."

"Too late. The hearing's set for Monday. Besides, do you think these guys can take on the white-shoe law firm Jameson hired?" He got up, pulled his mask and gloves out of his pocket, and started to change.

"Peter, where do you think you're going in this weather?"

"I don't know. I just need to be alone so I can sort this out." He undid the latch on her window.

"Peter, please, for God's sake, don't push me away," Mary Jane sobbed.

Peter's own tears fell from behind his mask as he hugged her one last time. "I love you so much, Mary Jane. Make no mistake about that. And that's why I won't drag you down with me."

He let go of her, threw open her window, and crouched on the windowsill, getting ready to leap. Just before he jumped, he cried out, "The truth is, I don't deserve you." And before she could stop him, he vanished into the white maelstrom.

Snow blowing in her face and into her living room, Mary Jane whispered softly, "Watch over him tonight . . ."

* * *

**AN:** Our hero seems to be in a sticky situation right now. The only way to find out what happens next is to continue to read this story as it unfolds. As always, reviews are very welcome but no flames. 


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

"I know I don't pray a lot, but I could really use your help right now . . ." Peter's warm breath inside Spider-Man's mask all but obliterated his vision as he swung through the driving blizzard, relying on his spider-sense to avoid collisions with buildings, lampposts, and other objects.

"Please, give me a sign. Show me a way out of this." Had he been able to see, and had his mind not been in such turmoil, he would have observed two men, one of them dressed as Santa Claus, desperately trying to dig a Salvation Army truck out of a still-growing snowdrift.

Unfortunately, Santa's plight did not trigger Peter's spider-sense.

Something else did. It was an explosion, followed by an alarm. In a reaction that had become so second nature as to be instinctive, Peter momentarily forgot his troubles and zeroed in on two men fighting through the snowstorm as they tried to run away from a nearby deli. One was holding a fully stuffed _Safeway_ bag; the other was brandishing a Smith and Wesson .44 magnum revolver. Both men were wearing ski goggles.

Spider-Man knew from the modus operandi that it could only have been Boomer and Borer, the connoisseurs of nitroglycerin. Though good with explosives, they were as dumb as doornails when it came to common sense. Spider-Man wondered if anyone else besides these two schmucks would think of pulling off a robbery during a snowstorm.

Clearing his eyepieces, he drew a bead on the crooks as they stumbled through the snow. Unfortunately, the fierce winds caused his webshots to veer away from their intended targets.

"Damn," he muttered.

The weather still gave Spider-Man the tactical advantage. "Ho, ho, ho!" he called out as he landed a few yards away from the fleeing robbers. "Me thinks I've found a couple of Grinches."

"What the hell is that?"

"It ain't Santa Claus, dude." Boomer pointed his gun toward the red and blue apparition emerging from the blizzard. But before he could squeeze the trigger, the magnum was out of his hands. It had been knocked away by a densely packed snowball the size of a grapefruit.

"End of the line, Boomer."

"Spider-Man!"

"That's right, boys. But tonight, I've been deputized as Santa's helper. It's my job to look at his list, check it twice, and tell the old man who's naughty and nice. "

"Let's get outta here." They had barely begun their retreat when they found themselves being lassoed together and bound back to back.

As he stood over the thieves, Spider-Man pretended to be scribbling names off a checklist. "Looks like you guys are going to find lumps of coal in your stockings tomorrow morning. That's really too bad."

"Get us out of this before we freeze to death, you freak!"

"Relax. The webbing will dissolve in a couple of hours, unless it turns brittle first."

A police siren began to wail off in the distance.

"Well, Boomer, it looks like you won't have to wait that long after all. I think they'll be serving hot cocoa at the Manhattan County Jail." He grabbed the loot from the hapless crooks. "Anyway, have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year."

The door to the deli had been blown off its hinges. A solitary fluorescent light remained on above the counter. Spider-Man quickly dropped the payroll in the office, replaced the door as best he could and covered it with extra-thick globs of webbing to make sure it stayed put until someone returned in the morning.

As he was getting ready to leave, he caught sight of the Christmas Eve edition of the _Daily Bugle_ in the window. His legs nearly buckled underneath him as he read the headline: **FAMILY OF SPIDER-MAN'S VICTIM SUES WALLCRAWLER** . . . Beneath it was a smaller headline that read, **Webslinger Implicated in Death of Pedestrian**.

Fighting an emotional meltdown as well as the weather, Peter swung, hurtled, jumped, and crawled until he reached the sixty-first floor of the Chrysler Building, with its eagle-headed gargoyles standing watch like silent sentries. He remembered Uncle Ben once telling him that Walter Chrysler got very insulted when a reporter referred to them as gargoyles. "They're supposed to be hood ornaments, you moron," the erstwhile car maker had been quoted as saying.

Exhausted, buffeted by winds that had grown even fiercer, Peter could feel the cold biting through his costume. The temperature was in the mid-twenties, but the wind-chill made it feel like twenty below. Shivering, he sat down behind one of the gargoyles, tucked his knees under his chin, and started rubbing his legs with his hands in a desperate bid to generate some heat-bearing friction.

The mute guardian offered him a small measure of comfort in a bleak and lonely world. "My life is a mess right now, Bruce," he said to the gargoyle through chattering teeth. "I thought that with Mary Jane by my side, things would get better, but they haven't . . ."

Suddenly, fury overwhelmed him, fury at the fickleness of a God who seemed to take sadistic pleasure in throwing one obstacle after another into his path. "What the hell do you want from me?" he shouted over the howling storm. "You gave me these powers and then you turn the whole world against me? You let the woman I love into my life, and then you make it impossible for us to stay together? If you're not going to fight for me, then dammit, don't fight against me! Leave me alone!"

He tried to stand, but a powerful gust of wind blew him off his feet and smashed him back against the towering edifice's brick wall.

He got up again. "Is that your answer? Fine." Distraught, yet defiant, he marched right up to the edge of the concrete cliff. "Whatever happens to me, it's on your hands."

Seeing the blobs of light sixty stories below made him hesitate, but only for a moment. "Forgive me, Aunt May," he whispered as he leaped into the abyss.

* * *

**AN:** That ends this chapter and it appears that Peter is taking the easy way out of his problems. To find out what happens next, come back for the next thrilling chapter. Reviews are welcome, flames are not. 


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

The buzzing in Peter's head was so overwhelming that it felt like his brain was being fried. His spider-sense had kicked in hard, as it did whenever he faced imminent danger. Instead of hurtling toward the ground as he had expected, he experienced his free-fall as if he were in a slow-moving elevator.

Realizing the pointlessness of his act, Peter fired a webline at a cornice of the Chrysler Building. Thirty seconds later, he was standing on the sidewalk beneath a lamppost.

He glanced up and down the block. It was completely and utterly silent except for a low-grade howl. The wind was beginning to let up, but the snow was still coming down in buckets. The few remaining cars were buried under an endless white blanket six inches thick. The storm was expected to dump as much as a foot before the night was through. It would be worse than the blizzard of '96.

Suddenly a pair of headlights appeared at the end of the street as a vehicle turned the corner. "It's about time a snowplow got here," he sighed with relief.

But the approaching vehicle was not a plow. It was too small and had no blade. Coming toward him was an automobile that had been out of production for a long time: an Oldsmobile Delta 88.

By all rights, the car should have been stuck. Instead, it was riding atop the snow, not even leaving tracks. Peter's heart sank as it pulled up in front of him. The driver leaned across the seat and opened the door, that achingly familiar expression of disappointment etched on his aged face.

It was the last person Peter felt like talking to at the moment.

"Get in the car, son."

Peter meekly obeyed, relieved to be out of the freezing cold. In a gesture of respect for his departed uncle, Peter doffed his mask.

The car pulled away from the curb and drove off. Peter had no idea where they were going, nor did he bother asking.

"Just what were you thinking?" Uncle Ben demanded in a tone that told Peter he was on his way to the woodshed.

Peter tried to dodge the question. "Well, I... I was sort of under a lot of stress, and..."

"Come on, Pete, did you really think ending your life would solve your problems? I expected far better than that from you."

"Do me a favor, Uncle Ben. Don't lecture me, alright? I'm trying. I've been trying ever since I put this damn costume on. But all I ever get for my efforts are headlines from the _Daily Bugle_. Nobody gives a damn!"

"Not even Mary Jane?"

"Look where it got her. She lost four gigs. I would've sent her right back to John if I'd known it would come to this."

"She loves you."

"Don't you understand? If she stays with me she's dead... Oops, sorry. No offense."

"None taken. But shouldn't it be her choice?"

"No." Peter stabbed the air a few inches away from his uncle's face to make his point. "I love her, too. More than anyone or anything in the world, except maybe Aunt May. And that's the reason I had to get out of her life. She'll have no problems, as long as no one connects her to me."

Ben laughed.

"This isn't funny, Uncle Ben."

"Come on, son. Don't be so naïve. Do you really think she'll be able to get on if you're not in her life? What was it she said when she first showed up on your doorstep . . . 'Peter, I can't survive without you'?"

"Well, she's wrong. She'd have been better off with John. Hell, the whole world would be better off without me."

"Peter, you shouldn't say things like that. You've been so focused on your day-to-day battle for survival that you've lost sight of why you became Spider-Man in the first place."

"Who's being naïve, Uncle Ben?"

"You know what your trouble is? All you ever listen to are the bad things Mr. Jameson says about Spider-Man. Good Lord, Peter, you're starting to believe that nonsense. You don't see all the good you've done. Do you have any idea at all, how many thousands of lives you've made better just by doing what you do? Millions more owe you a debt of gratitude, whether or not they care to acknowledge it."

"Yeah, right. They appreciate my help until Jameson gets them all whipped up with one of his editorials and the next thing you know, they want my head on a platter."

"Mr. Jameson is a weak man. I'm surprised you haven't recognized that."

"He's one of the most influential people in the whole city, maybe even beyond. He can make or break politicians. City Hall has to kiss his butt if they ever want to get anything passed. And he _hates_ me."

"But he's weak," Ben reiterated. "The only way he can pump himself up is to tear you down. In his mind, you are everything that he isn't."

"You don't really expect me to believe that, do you?" Suddenly, he became aware of an object resting against his leg. It was a book.

Curious, Peter picked it up. "What's this?"

Its cover appeared to be made of white leather, and its title was engraved in gold gothic lettering - _Ben-Hur, A Tale of the Christ_.

"Didn't you see the movie, Uncle Ben?"

"Twelve times at least. You should see the new book General Wallace is writing."

Under any other circumstances, Peter would have been fascinated by stories of life in the great beyond. But as it was, he was extremely suspicious of his uncle's motives for visiting him. "What's your angle in all this?"

"What makes you think I have an angle?"

"I think I can guess," Peter replied a little more sharply. "They sent you down here so you could earn your wings or something. Well, if you think I'm going to help you after what you put me through, you can forget it. Go back to your cloud and let me handle things my way."

Ben smiled. "We don't have wings, Peter. Come to think of it, we don't live on clouds either."

Peter was tiring of his uncle's flippancy. "Just leave me alone."

"So you can kill yourself?"

Having his darkest thoughts thrown back in his face brought Peter up short. "You're right. Maybe the world would have been better off if I hadn't been born at all."

"Surely, you don't mean that, Peter."

"You bet I do. Heck, you'd still be alive if it weren't for me."

"Really?" Uncle Ben's eyes brightened, as if the proverbial light bulb had just gone off inside his head. "Are you willing to put that statement to the test?"

"Put what to the test?"

"The thing you just said about the world being better off if you'd never been born."

"Hell, yeah!" Peter replied, anticipating that he would simply vanish into nothingness, like a soap bubble.

"Okay," Uncle Ben decreed. "You were never born."

"Just like that?" Peter asked with a snap of his fingers.

"Just like that," Ben answered, snapping back.

"Then why am I still here?"

"You're not. Oh, you still exist very much in the eyes of heaven. You even have all your spider-powers. But as far as the world is concerned, you don't exist." Ben clapped his hand on Peter's shoulder. "You haven't a care in the world. No responsibilities, no struggles with money, no Jameson after you with a subpoena."

"Really?" Peter's eyes went wide with eager anticipation.

The car came to a stop and the door opened behind him. "You've been given an extremely rare opportunity, Pete," Uncle Ben warned gently as Peter felt a rush of cold air. "You'll actually get a chance to see what the world would be like without you. Let's hope you make the most if it."

And with that, Peter put on his mask and stepped out of the car... into Times Square.

This was going to be good...

* * *

**AN:** Good ole uncle Ben to the rescue. Hopefully, he'll put Peter back on the right track. You'll have to keep reading to find out more. Please leave a review, they are very welcome but flames are not. 


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

"At least it stopped snowing." Peter sighed with relief at being able to navigate normally again. The snow and the wind had indeed ceased, and Times Square was again alive with the hustle and bustle that gave this world-famous locale its unique brand of vibrancy.

Peter knew the spot where Uncle Ben had dropped him off. He had been there thousands of times. But when he turned around and looked up, the huge neon letters proudly proclaiming the _Daily Bugle_ were gone. In their place was an equally massive logo for a Japanese bank.

"I was just here a few hours ago," Peter thought. "How could they have moved out so fast, and during a blizzard, no less?" He hurried to the nearest corner to check the street sign -- Broadway and West 43rd Street, as it had always been.

Baffled, he flagged down a passer-by. "Excuse me. What happened to the _Bugle_?"

The harried pedestrian looked at Peter as though he had escaped from Bellevue.

"The _Daily Bugle,_" Peter persisted. "You know, the newspaper."

"You've got to be kidding." The sneer in the man's voice could not be missed. "They got bought out by the _New York Post_ three years ago."

"Three years? How could that be, unless . . ." Peter recalled that the _Bugle_ had been deep in the red before he'd started bringing in pictures of Spider-Man. "Whoooo-hoooo." Peter raised his fist in the air, celebrating the long-overdue vanquishing of an unworthy foe. He guessed that without Spider-Man, J. Jonah Jameson couldn't sell enough newspapers to keep his scandal rag afloat. _It couldn't have happened to a sweeter guy_. "Thanks." But the man was already gone.

"Didn't I tell you that things would be better if I wasn't around?" Peter asked Uncle Ben as he grinned beneath his mask.

"The night's still young, Michelangelo," came his uncle's voice from deep within his mind. "I'd lose that smart-ass attitude if I were you."

He was suddenly aware that scores of people were staring at him.

"Hey, dude, you got the wrong holiday," someone called out. "It ain't Halloween."

"Don't you know who I am?" he retorted, thinking the guy was an out-of-towner.

"The freak of the week." There were guffaws all around.

Peter laughed the insult off as he realized why everyone was looking at him like he was some sort of alien. If he had not been born, then how could there be a Spider-Man?

His problem was easily remedied. Remembering where he had left his clothes, he fired a webline and took off in the direction of Greenwich Village. He smiled at the gasps his aerial acrobatics were eliciting from the crowd below.

"That guy must be a trapeze artist or something," one awed onlooker remarked.

"But the circus don't show up until spring," another one replied. "He's gotta be a hitman."

As Peter swung between buildings, he began to notice that the cityscape beneath him was looking like a war zone. Burned-out cars and trucks lay scattered on side streets, interspersed with chunks of debris. Buildings looked as though they had been bombed. Streetlights were barely working or not working at all. Peter wondered if Shocker was the loose again.

What he really found unnerving, however, was watching people mill about as though nothing were out of place. He was starting to wonder whether he was really going off his rocker.

All of a sudden, he was in free-fall. Part of the wall to which his webline had attached broke off, jarred loose by his momentum. He fired another line to right himself as the chunk of concrete and steel crashed to the street below.

His heart began to pound as he came within sight of Mary Jane's apartment building. He quickly found the window that he was looking for. Since there was no _Daily Bugle_, he reasoned, there would not be any reporters or photographers keeping her apartment under surveillance.

Another, extremely gratifying thought had popped into his mind. Without Spider-Man, the biggest obstacle to his relationship with MJ had been removed. Nothing would ever come between them again. With a thrill of anticipation rising in his throat, he landed on the wall, opened the window and slipped inside.

"What the . . ." shouted an unfamiliar male voice.

"It's a burglar, Harold!" screamed an equally strange female voice.

Startled, Peter looked around the apartment. None of Mary Jane's furniture was there. Gone from the living room wall were the rave notice from _Earnest_ and the _Emma Rose_ poster. The kitchen was the wrong color and was littered with unwashed dishes.

But most shocking of all was the substitution of an angry middle-aged couple for Mary Jane as the occupants of Apartment No. 6F.

"Who the hell are you?" the man demanded as he grabbed a baseball bat.

"I'm no burglar!" Peter stammered. "This is my girlfriend's place. There has to be some kind of mistake." Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the woman picking up the phone and dialing.

"Keep him back there, Harold, while I call the police."

Suddenly, his spider-sense started to tingle. The man was coming at him, full bore. He swung at Peter, wielding the bat like a club.

Peter easily sidestepped the blow, which would have inflicted a serious injury had it connected.

"The cops are on their way!" the wife shouted.

The husband reloaded and went for Peter's head with every ounce of strength he had.

Peter stopped the bat in the middle of its downward trajectory. In one motion, he yanked it out of the husband's hands and broke it in two.

The wife fainted. The husband cringed. Angry at having been attacked, Peter picked him up by the front of his shirt and heaved him against the wall, not too hard, but not too gently either.

"Mary Jane Watson lives in this apartment," Peter said slowly. "Where is she?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. The missus and I, we've been living here for over five years. I swear!"

Peter could tell right away from the tremors in the man's voice that he wasn't lying. He glanced around the apartment again, wondering how he could have possibly screwed up. "I'm sorry," he whispered as he put the husband down and bolted out the window.

All over the city, police sirens were beginning to wail. Acting on tips from numerous eyewitnesses, the NYPD issued an all-points-bulletin for a man dressed like a spider who clung to buildings, swung from ropes, and broke into people's apartments. The message warned that this mysterious acrobat was extremely dangerous, and that lethal force might be necessary to subdue him.

* * *

**AN:** Things have taken a turn for our webheaded friend. His exploration in a world without him will continue. Please feel free to leave a review because they are most welcome, flames on the other hand are not. 


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Peter had made it back to where this whole bizarre journey had started – the 61st floor of the Chrysler Building, the one place he always thought of as a safe refuge. But as soon as he arrived at his customary perch, he found a terrifying sight awaiting him.

All of the eagle-heads were gone, torn away along with half the ledge.

It was even worse for the nearby Empire State Building. The top floors had been sheared off, sliced clean as if by a gigantic hacksaw. Horrified, Peter realized that most of the magnificent buildings comprising the Manhattan skyline had suffered similar fates. Across the East River, the entire waterfront complex of warehouses and power plants was gone, with nothing but a huge swath of darkness in its place.

"What the hell is going on here?" Peter demanded.

On cue, Uncle Ben appeared, wearing a broad smile and holding _Ben-Hur_. "You got what you wanted, Peter. How does it taste?"

"If this is some kind of sick game, I don't want to play anymore. Unhypnotize me, or do whatever angels do to make things normal again."

"For you, Peter, things are normal."

"You call this normal!" Peter shouted, gesturing expansively at the half-ruined city. "It looks like Beirut down there."

"A bunch of rival gangs have carved up the city into their own fiefdoms. They're always at war with one another -- the Maggia, A.I.M, the Frightful Four, the Sinister Syndicate and a whole bunch of freelancers, to say nothing of the Green Goblin and Dr. Octopus. The police are overwhelmed and most of them are corrupt anyway." Ben shrugged his shoulders. "Looks like the beasts have taken over."

"But how? Why?"

"You know, for a smart guy, you can be pretty slow sometimes. Without you, there's no one to protect the city, no one to stop thugs and criminals from preying on the innocent."

A huge clap of thunder sounded off in the distance. Peter observed a bright orange fireball rising against the mud-colored sky. His eyes widened in horror when he realized where the explosion had occurred.

"Oh, my God! The munitions plant near Forest Hills. Aunt May!" He fired a webline and took off.

"The house!" Ben shouted after him. "Your aunt May still lives in the old house!"

"Please God, don't let anything happen to her," Peter begged. "Just let me get there in time."

He moved as fast as he could. The Queensboro Bridge was still intact, so he wouldn't have to chance negotiating the thin ice covering the East River.

Fire trucks had converged on the burning plant. They seemed to have the situation under control.

"What did he say? The old house?" Peter breathed a sigh of relief. The neighborhood in which he grew up was furthest from the disaster site.

He found his childhood home. It looked no different than when he had last seen it, the day he helped his aunt finish packing. There was a light on in the living room window. As Peter approached the porch, he could see his aunt's silhouette in the window.

Gathering up his courage, he knocked on the door.

No answer. Thinking that she might be hard of hearing, he knocked again, a little bit louder.

"Alright, alright. Just a minute."

Was Peter imagining it, or was there something thick in Aunt May's voice.

May Parker opened the door. She cringed at what she saw in front of her.

"Aunt May! Thank God you're okay!" Peter cried out as he tried to embrace her. But she jumped back, moving surprisingly quick for a woman her age.

"Who are you and how do you know my name?" she demanded in a tone that Peter had never heard before, a voice filled with smoldering anger. He gasped in disbelief when he saw her face under the dim porch light. She appeared even more aged than when he had seen her last. Her eyes had deep dark circles around them, and were completely frosty, totally devoid of the warmth that made her the person she was.

"It's me, Peter. I thought surely you'd remember me."

"Peter who?" the old woman snapped furiously. "I don't know who the hell you are, but I have no relatives, and I have nothing worth stealing."

Placing a hand to his face, Peter realized that he still wore his mask. He pulled it off in front of her, but no light of recognition appeared in the old woman's eyes.

"Look, Aunt May. Something's happened to me, I don't know what. I must be under some kind of stress or spell or something. This whole thing's some kind of crazy psycho nightmare."

"I'll say. Perhaps if you'd stop using drugs and parading around in kiddie pajamas, the world wouldn't be so crazy." She started to close the door.

"Please, hear me out. I'm Mary and Richard's son! You took me in when I was a baby, after they died in a plane crash, overseas. Don't you remember?"

That kindled something of a memory within the old woman, "Mary and Richard Parker?" she asked, now curious.

"Yes."

"My husband's younger brother?"

"Yes!" Peter repeated, visibly relieved that he was finally getting through to her.

But May's harsh, hostile expression returned, evaporating Peter's hopes. "Mary and Richard Parker had no children."

_That was impossible_, Peter thought frantically, _if they didn't_, _why am I standing right here?_ "Alright then, call Uncle Ben!" Peter demanded. "He'll know me."

"How dare you refer to my late husband as your uncle! He didn't know you from Adam, and neither do I."

Peter's eyes widened in shock, "What do you mean, late? He's still alive. He's got to be!"

"Alright, that's enough! I've heard about all I can take from you! My husband died of cancer five years ago. Now, get out of here before I call the police!"

"Come on, Aunt May. You've just got to recognize me," Peter implored once again.

"I told you before that I don't know you! If you ask me, you belong in a nuthouse." And she slammed the door in his face.

Tears spilled from Peter's eyes as he put his mask back on and turned back toward the street, the apparent reality of his situation finally striking home. "What have I done? Oh, God, what have I done?"

"It's amazing, how many lives one person can touch," Uncle Ben said sympathetically from behind him. "Some people give so much of themselves, and when they aren't around, it leaves a hole too big to fill."

"I thought you told me you'd still be alive if I wasn't born," Peter answered numbly.

"You said that, not me," Ben gave his nephew a bemused look. "Without you to nurture, your aunt May and I had nothing. I worked at the company for forty years, and when I got sick, they laid me off. In less than a year, I was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, and six months after that I left this world. So you see Peter, having you around really brightened up our lives.

"What's going to happen to Aunt May?"

"Who knows? She'll spend the rest of her life alone, no one to look after her. Hopefully God will be merciful and take her in her sleep." Like the father he had always been, Ben tenderly wrapped his arm around Peter's slumped shoulders. "You still don't understand what's going on, do you? You really have a wonderful life. Don't you see what a mistake it would be to throw it away?"

"Uncle Ben?"

"Yes, Peter?"

"Where's Mary Jane?"

Uncle Ben shook his head.

"Take me to her," Peter pleaded.

"I don't think it's such a good idea . . ."

Peter grabbed his uncle by the lapels. The force of the movement knocked _Ben-Hur_ out of his pocket. "Please, Uncle Ben," he repeated desperately. "I've got to find MJ. If there's anyone left who'll know me, it'll be her."

Ben relented. "Okay, Peter. But I'm warning you, you're not going to like it."

"Where is she?" Peter demanded.

"She's finishing her shift at the Moondance Café."

As Peter disappeared over the rooftops, Ben retrieved his book and wiped away the snow before putting it back in his pocket. He glanced upward, a twinkle in his eye. "Of course he'll figure it out. He's your son, isn't he?"

* * *

**AN:** Peter's reunion with his aunt May wasn't so pleasant, was it? Now, how will things go when he finds MJ? You'll have to comeback to find out. Reviews are very welcome because we like to know what you think of our story, but flames are not welcome. 


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

"Gotta hurry," Peter urged himself on as he hurtled back to Manhattan. In no time at all, he found himself standing across the street from the Moondance Cafe, the fast food joint where Mary Jane got her first job. The Moondance still looked like the massive health code violation it had always been. What was different now was that it was in the middle of what looked like an urban war zone. Burnt-out buildings and car wrecks surrounded the grimy establishment on all sides.

The door to the Moondance opened, and Mary Jane Watson stepped onto the sidewalk and started walking away, very quickly.

"Next time I'm gonna dock your paycheck, Miss Watson!" Peter heard a gruff, accented voice call out from behind her. Enrique looked the exactly same . . . swarthy and sloppy.

Mary Jane did not answer back. She kept right on walking, her eyes cast downward.

Fog from Peter's breath had formed on his eyepieces, obscuring his view. He tugged his mask off just as Mary Jane was crossing the street.

Peter gasped, his eyes widening in sheer disbelief.

Mary Jane was almost unrecognizable. She was even thinner than before, almost waif-like in appearance, her hair stringy and unkempt. The threadbare coat she was wearing over her orange waitress uniform gave her practically no protection against the bitter cold.

But it was the look on her face that had really shocked him. Gone from her eyes was that sparkling laughter that melted his heart and the heart of every man she had ever dated. Those eyes had gone from iridescent green to dull gray, and now held the unmistakable expression of complete and utter defeat. It was as if Mary Jane Watson had long ago given up on living and had settled for merely existing.

More than anything else Peter had seen on this bizarre Christmas Eve, his encounter with Mary Jane had nearly sent him over the edge. "What the hell could have reduced MJ to this?" he asked himself despairingly. And then, from deep within his own soul, the answer came. By taking himself out of the game, he had destroyed the life of the woman he loved – without him to inspire her, she never found the courage to stand up to her father and go after her dreams.

It was a verdict that Peter Parker could not accept. A steely determination suddenly infused every fiber of his being. He would undo this disaster and save her any way he could. He would make things right again.

"Mary Jane!" he called out.

"Buzz off," Mary Jane answered, without looking up.

He ran right up to her. "MJ it's me, for God's sake. It's Peter."

Mary Jane looked up, Her eyes widened with utter fright. She looked at him as if he were a wild animal that had escaped from the zoo.

"MJ," Peter pleaded desperately. "Don't you remember? I'm your boyfriend. We love each other."

"Get away from me!" she yelled as she reached into her purse and whipped out a can of mace.

"Please," Peter pleaded, his heart on the verge of breaking. "You know I could never hurt you. I love you."

"I said get out of here, you nutjob!" Mary Jane screamed as she aimed the nozzle right at Peter's face.

Before she could press the trigger, Peter fired a web ball and knocked the can out of her hand. It was a purely defensive reflex, an almost autonomic response, which, unfortunately, had elicited an unanticipated reaction.

"My God," a horrified MJ gasped. "What are you?" She dropped the can and started to run.

"MJ!" Peter called out desperately. "Please, don't run from me!" But she was running away from him as fast as she could. Peter did not even try to run after her. He merely leaped overhead, landing in front of her. This frightened Mary Jane even more. She stood stock still as he approached her, convinced that he was some monster intent on killing her.

He grasped her shoulders. "Mary Jane, look into my eyes, and tell me you love me," he begged.

"Please mister, whatever you are, just go away," she squeaked helplessly, too frightened to put up any resistance. "I've never seen you before in my life."

But Peter refused to believe it. MJ could not have forgotten him, not after the kisses they shared, not after their intense lovemaking . . . not after he had saved her life five times! He thought for a moment . . . the kiss. That would bring back her memory.

Peter pulled Mary Jane in close and pressed his lips to hers. She closed her eyes and whimpered as if he was going to rape her.

He recoiled in horror. The lips touching his were completely devoid of passion, completely without the intense feelings she had for him, even before they declared their love for each other.

"Nooooooooooooo!!!" Peter shouted as he realized that the woman he was holding was a complete and total stranger.

And as soon as he let go of her, she screamed . . . and screamed . . . and screamed.

"Look, officer!" someone cried out to an approaching policeman. "That fruitcake is attacking some girl!"

"Alright, you!" the policeman barked, drawing his gun. "Get away from that lady and put your hands over your head."

Peter put his mask back on and took off down the street, grateful that he still had his spider-powers.

All of a sudden, sirens were everywhere. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a S.W.A.T. van roll to a stop and disgorge a squad of officers carrying assault rifles.

Peter fired a webline and took off, just as the cops opened fire.

"Nail him before he gets away!" he heard one cop shout

"Too late," cried another. "Get hold of dispatch. Tell 'em to send in a couple of Blue Thunder specials."

"What in God's name are those?" Peter wondered as he swung between the buildings.

He did not have to wait long for his answer. On the horizon appeared a squadron of what looked like military-style attack helicopters. That New York City had to buy Apaches from the Army spoke volumes about how severe its crime problem had become without Spider-Man.

Peter's spider-sense went off like a five-alarm fire, and an instant later, machine gun bullets started flying. "I'd better lose these guys," he panted as he swung even faster, finding alleys wherever he could in a desperate attempt to throw the helicopters off his trail.

Utterly exhausted, Peter landed in an alley somewhere near Greenwich Village. Almost immediately, he could hear the sirens closing in on him, as if he were in a gigantic, three-dimensional game of Pac Man. The choppers had completely cut off his aerial escape routes, and the myriad police vehicles were threatening to do the same on the ground.

Just as all seemed lost, the Delta 88 pulled up, its door already open.

"Seen enough?" Uncle Ben asked bemusedly.

Peter jumped into the car and slammed the door shut. "Please, Uncle Ben," he begged, tears running down his cheeks, making the inside of his mask uncomfortably wet. "Get me the hell out of here and let me live again. I'll do whatever's asked of me. I'll go to jail if I have to, but please, just get me home."

"Okay, son. Hang on." The Delta rocketed forward, smashing through police blockades and causing traffic to scatter.

"Are you out of your mind!" Peter shouted as he watched the speedometer exceed a hundred and twenty miles per hour.

"Don't be a back seat driver."

The sirens receded as the Delta sped toward the Holland Tunnel. Surprisingly, there were no other cars in front of them.

"Are we going to Jersey?" Peter asked.

"Not quite." The old car rushed headlong into a field of the purest, most radiant white light at the other end of the tunnel.

* * *

**AN:** That certainly wasn't the type of reunion Peter wanted with Mary Jane. Luckily, uncle Ben was there to get him out of trouble. What will happen next? Read the next chapter to find out. Please leave a review, we like to hear what you think about this story but no flames. 


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Peter opened his eyes, but couldn't see a thing in front of him, other than an endless field of white. He wondered whether his uncle had gotten careless and dropped him in the middle of an Antarctic whiteout.

He tried to get up, but could not move his arms or his legs. His breathing was labored, as if someone were trying to smother him, and with good reason. He was buried under several inches of snow.

Panic suddenly gripped him. He tried to shout for help, but neither his lungs nor his vocal cords were functioning. As his mind began to focus on his immediate surroundings, he realized that he was suffering from sleep paralysis. It was as if his spirit, after its long sojourn in the netherworld of delta sleep, had not yet completely settled back into his body.

Yet, someone was aware of his plight. He thought he heard the sound of a window being thrown open.

"There's something out there," someone called out in a thick Spanish accent. "I'm gonna see what it is."

A pair of hands began to brush the snow away from his masked face.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph, it's Spider-Man. He's all froze up."

"Get him inside, José."

Drifting in and out of sleep, still unable to command his limbs, he felt his head and shoulders being gently lifted away from the wall against which they had been resting.

"Is he breathing?"

"Yeah. Give me a hand, Raul."

Raul took over from the inside, helping José carry Spider-Man across the windowsill. Together, he and José laid him down on a sofa and quickly closed the window to get rid of the draft.

"Go find a space-heater." José commanded.

"Th-thanks," a still-groggy Spider-Man whispered. He started to get up, but immediately felt the room start to tilt crazily. As soon as he lay back down, the vertigo stopped.

"Where am I?" a dazed, bewildered Spider-Man asked.

"You're in a shrink's office, inside the Chrysler Building." José glanced at his watch. "It's 5:30 in the morning, man. You must've been out there a long time. I had to clean at least three inches of snow off you."

"You mean, I was on that ledge all night?"

José nodded. "You was almost a goner, dude. Any longer and you would've froze to death, like them homeless guys a while back. What happened? Some bad guy knock your head against the wall?"

"It sure feels like it," Spider-Man groaned, rubbing the goose egg on the back of his head.

Raul returned with a space heater. He plugged it in right away and turned the dial to maximum. "It needs a while to kick in. Should be all warmed up in about ten minutes."

"I appreciate it," the wallcrawler murmured, his voice a little stronger now. With an immense effort, he stood up again, holding on to the sofa until the dizziness passed. He looked out the huge floor-to-ceiling window. The snow had stopped, and there was an eerie stillness in the air. But most important, the ledge was intact.

"Yes!" Spider-Man cheered.

"What is it?" Raul inquired.

"I was there, all the time. The whole night. I must've hit my head against the wall when that wind gust blew me off my feet." He lifted the window and stepped through. "I never jumped! I never tried to kill myself! It was all just a dream!"

"If you say so," Raul shrugged.

"You sure you want to go back out there?" José asked.

"I gotta check something out. But hey, thanks for your help and have a very merry Christmas."

"Any time, amigo," Raul said gratefully. "If it wasn't for you, this city would be a garbage dump."

Boy, was it nice to be appreciated. Peter stepped out onto the snow-covered ledge. The bird-headed gargoyles were still in place. Off in the distance, the Empire State Building and all the other skyscrapers were once again intact, their integrity restored. The lights of the East River waterfront complex blazed gloriously, as they always had.

"Whooooo-hooooo!" Spider-Man took to the skies, overcome with sheer joy at seeing everything back to normal. But just to make certain, he took a swing by Times Square. Sure enough, the _Daily Bugle_ was back in its rightful place. "Merry Christmas, Mr. Jameson," Peter shouted. He never imagined that he would be so happy to see the huge red letters of the tabloid's logo boorishly proclaiming its name.

As he was swinging over Broadway, he caught sight of a truck that appeared to have broken down. It was the same Salvation Army truck that he had ignored earlier. Two men were circling around the truck. Although one of the men was dressed as Santa, his mood was anything but jolly.

Spider-Man landed in the middle of the street. "Anything I can help you guys with?"

"Boy, are we glad to see you," Santa said, visibly relieved that help was finally at hand. "The engine died and we've got a huge delivery run to make for a bunch of low-income kids."

Peter thought fast. He couldn't bear the thought of all those needy children not getting their toys on Christmas morning. He might have been going down, but at least his last act as Spider-Man would bring joy and glad tidings to those who needed it the most.

"I'll do it," he told the men point-blank.

"It's a hell of a load we got here. Can you handle it?"

"No sweat. It'll be just like delivering pizzas. I just need to know where."

The other man pulled a twenty-page computer printout out of his coat pocket. Spider-Man quickly glanced at the list. Fortunately, all of the addresses were in the same area – thirty square blocks west of Columbia University. He jumped onto the truck and pulled out the first of twenty-five huge brown bags, stuffed with all manner of toys. He was about to fire his webline, but then he paused. "Can I borrow your outfit?" he asked Santa.

The man was delighted at the prospect. "Absolutely. But if the kids see you, they'll want to know what happened to your sleigh."

"I'll just tell them it's in the shop. Got sideswiped by an airplane."

Anyone who happened to look in the right direction, at the right time, and in the right place on Christmas morning would have seen a scrawny Santa Claus, wearing an ill-fitting red suit swinging on a rope, holding an enormous sack of toys.

One of those fortunate few happened to be a local weather forecaster covering the aftermath of the storm.

"Quick, get that!" she barked at her cameraman, gesturing for him to track the large brown sack floating overhead like a UFO.

In a few minutes, the whole city was tracking Spider-Man's Santa run.

As for Peter, he never even felt the weight.

* * *

**AN:** With Peter being back in the real world, how will his experience change him? Find out in the next chapter. Reviews are very welcome, flames are not. 


	11. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

The sun rose proudly above the Manhattan skyline, chasing away the last of the storm clouds. The snowplows and salt trucks were out in force, clearing the streets and sidewalks with a long-practiced efficiency.

And in a certain quarter of the city, hundreds of children who might otherwise have not received anything whooped with joy that Santa had not forgotten them.

His duty done, Peter hightailed it back to the Village, back to the woman of his dreams.

He tapped on her window, not caring whether any reporter saw him or not.

"Mary Jane."

There was no answer.

On a hunch, Peter gave the window a gentle push. It moved upward, just as he had hoped. He quickly slid inside, his spider-sense remaining silent.

"MJ?" he called out.

The apartment was deserted. But, thankfully, the color scheme was restored, and the familiar furniture and pictures were once again in their proper places.

On the bed lay a pile of dry clothes on the bed, along with a hastily written note.

_Tiger,_

_Meet me at the Lexington Avenue entrance to the Chrysler Building._

"God bless Mary Jane; she knows where I hang out." As he was spinning a new web sack for his civvies, the telephone rang. MJ's answering machine kicked in after only two rings.

"_Hi, it's me. Sing your song at the beep."_

"I've got to talk to her about changing that voice mail," Peter thought. "She's had it since high school."

"_Mary Jane, it's Lou. Sorry to interrupt your holiday, but this can't wait. I just got off the phone with Freddie Wilson, the producer of _Manhattan Memories _. . ."_

As soon as the message had ended, Peter was out the window again, a bolt of red and blue streaking through canyons of glass, steel, concrete, and snow. "Please be there, MJ," he prayed as he landed in an alley a few blocks from the rendezvous point. He changed clothes, stuffed his mask and gloves into his coat pockets, and hustled through the partially plowed snow. There streets were practically empty when he arrived at his destination.

A solitary figure was standing in front of the revolving door. She was wearing a black winter coat, a white beret-style hat, and a pink scarf, which left only a pair of green eyes visible. Her gloved hands were in her pockets, a testament to how cold it was.

"Mary Jane!"

"Peter!" She was in his arms, practically sobbing.

So was he. He held her tightly while she unwound her scarf and pressed her lips against his. The electric passion had returned, along with the emerald sparkle in her eyes.

"You got the part!" Peter gasped, practically out of breath.

"They dropped the case!" Mary Jane panted at the same time.

"What?"

They tried again, but wound up starting another simultaneous conversation.

"You go first."

"No, you."

"It's all over the news this morning . . . The people that Mr. Jameson was lining up against you . . . They called up eyewitness news . . . said they saw you on TV delivering toys . . . They changed their minds . . .There's no more lawsuit!" She was so excited that the words were tumbling over one another trying to get out of her mouth. "You don't have to go to court!"

"Are you serious?"

"Yes! That's why I went looking for you. I figured this is where you'd be, but I wasn't sure so I left the note, and . . ."

They hugged each other again.

"Now, what were you trying to tell me?"

"Your agent called. He said they canned the lead actress on _Manhattan Memories_. The producer insisted on putting you in the lead and told whoever was pushing the other one to stop interfering in casting decisions."

"You're kidding!"

"No, I'm not, I swear. The producer and the director wanted you from the get-go. You gotta call your agent right away."

"Oh my God! Peter, this is it. My first role on Broadway . . ." She embraced him again. "Let's get going."

"Wanna take the scenic route?"

"Is the Pope Catholic?"

"Come on, then," Peter said as he escorted his beautiful angel to the nearest alley. He did not even bother to change back into his costume. Instead, he relied on speed and stealth to stay off the radar.

"I forgot to tell you," Mary Jane informed Peter as they returned to the safety and comfort of Apartment 6F. "Aunt May called last night. She tried to reach you."

Peter suddenly remembered a very important engagement. "Christmas dinner! Oh my God, I forgot all about it . . . we're supposed to go over there this afternoon . . ."

"Calm down, Peter. I told her we'd be there."

"You did?"

"Tiger, there was no doubt in my mind whatsoever."

Peter breathed a sigh of relief. If there was one thing he looked forward to more than spending time with MJ, it was his aunt's roast turkey and homemade holiday fruitcake.

"Wow, Aunt May, that was fabulous," Peter exclaimed as he patted his stomach. "I'm stuffed like a goose."

"When was the last time you had a home-cooked meal, Peter?" Aunt May inquired with that lovingly stern demeanor that told her nephew how much she cared about him.

"The last time I was here."

There was infectious laughter all around.

"Don't worry, Aunt May," Mary Jane reassured her. "We'll fatten him up by next Christmas."

All of a sudden, Aunt May got up from the table and gestured for Peter to follow her into the bedroom.

"MJ, could you excuse Peter and me for a few minutes?"

Mary Jane figured that May needed to discuss a few matters pertaining to her husband's estate. "Sure, Aunt May, I'll clear the table and get dessert ready."

As soon as she closed the bedroom door behind them, Aunt May opened her closet and retrieved an old, dust-covered shoebox from the bottom. "Peter, the other day, I was going through some of Ben's things, and I found this." She opened the box and retrieved an old book. Its cover was made of white leather and it was embossed with gold lettering.

Peter's eyes widened as he read the title – _Ben-Hur, A Tale of the Christ, by General Lew Wallace_.

"This was your uncle's favorite book. He wanted to give it to you for your seventeenth birthday, but we couldn't remember where we put it."

She handed him the book. There was a hard lump inside, apparently just under the front cover. As he opened the book, a tiny brown envelope that had the words, "Chemical Bank" on the flap, slipped out and fell onto the bed. It was the type of envelope normally used to hold keys to safe deposit boxes.

"What's this?" Peter asked Aunt May.

"Open it and you'll find out, dear."

Peter turned the flap back and emptied the envelope's contents into his hand. His eyes once again went wide with surprise.

"These belonged to your parents. I think it's time to pass them on to you."

"Wow," Peter said as he put the objects back into the envelope and put it in his pocket. "You think it might be a message?"

"I can't really say," Aunt May replied. "But it's nice to think so. Oh, look." She glanced toward the still-open book. On the title page was a note in his uncle's handwriting, scrawled in pencil . . .

_Peter, _

_No one can fail who gives of himself. Never forget that one person can always make a difference. _

_Uncle Ben_

"Thank you," Peter whispered as microscopic tears appeared at the corners of his eyes.

* * *

**AN:** Well, everything has changed for Peter and all for the better. He can thank his uncle Ben for that. There's a short epilogue that follows, which will end this tale. Let us know what you think about this fic by leaving a review, but no flames. 


	12. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

"Two minutes ladies and gentlemen, two minutes," Dick Clark's amplified voice boomed across Times Square. Over one million revelers had gathered to usher in the New Year, in a party so big that it could only happen in New York.

Two of the party-goers had a literal bird's eye view of the thousand-pound luminescent ball waiting to be dropped. They were standing atop the gigantic clock tower on the Western side of the square, hidden by dark clothes and darker shadows.

"One minute."

"Best seats in the house, Mary Jane," Peter beamed.

"I wish we didn't have to look at the _Daily Bugle_."

"Small price to pay." Suddenly, the _Bugle's_ logo went dark. "Whaddya know, MJ. Somebody up there's listening to you."

"Thirty seconds."

"Peter, do you have any idea what Professor Connors called about?"

"I suppose I should find out, huh?"

"Fifteen seconds."

"Listen, Mary Jane, about your Christmas present . . ."

"Yes, Peter?"

"Well, you know I meant to get it. But things sort of got in the way."

"Ten seconds . . . nine . . . eight . . ."

"It's a little bit late, isn't?"

"I know. But here it is anyway."

"Oh my God! Peter . . . is this . . .?"

"It was my mother's."

"seven . . . six . . ."

"Marry me, Mary Jane Watson?"

"three . . . two . . ."

"YES!!!!!!!!! . . . . Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes . . . ."

"HAPPY NEW YEAR!"

Times Square was rocked by two sets of fireworks that night – those set off by launchers and those set off by the kiss of two lovers.

**The End**

* * *

**AN:** That's the end to this story and I hope everyone enjoyed it. Feel free to leave a review, but no flames. 


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